


We call this saturday night

by tobinlaughing



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Awesome Darcy Lewis, Comedic Violence, Drunkenness, Gen, Poor Clint, Thor amongst the squishies, a night out, comedic drunkenness, this fight doesn't need Natasha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 09:31:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobinlaughing/pseuds/tobinlaughing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darcy and Clint are having a tiff, so some of the team take them out for a drink, hoping to relieve the tension.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We call this saturday night

Consider the mojito.

Fresh mint leaves are the best, releasing the sharpest scent and strongest flavor when ground between the sugar crystals at the bottom of the glass and the pestle wielded by the bartender. Rock or raw sugar will shred the mint leaves, but powdered sugar will provide too little friction and not enough flavor--so plain table sugar suffices a the bottom of the glass. The lime provides smooth, perky contrast to the dessert-like sweetness already present in surprising harmony with the slow burn of the rum, harsh or strident or smooth depending on its shelf of origin.

Natasha considers her mojito.

It's better than considering her present company: a sour-faced Barton on one end of the curved booth, an equally unhappy Darcy at the other end, with Stark and Thor and Natasha serving as a super-powered buffer zone between. Tony is deep in his cups (a phrase Natasha has always liked and one of which Thor would certainly approve) and quickly becoming insensible to the stormclouds of relationship drama that Darcy and Barton are sparking up between them. Thor is somewhat nervous; his social time with the Team usually includes Jane Foster, who--while not the most socially fluent person Natasha's ever encounter--can usually be counted on to break tensions by picking a science fight with Tony or picking any kind of fight at all with Darcy. But Jane Foster has been called away to Tromso for a guest lecture and Thor came back in town a few days early. He has already finished two growlers and is onto his third.

Consider beer.

Barley, wheat or rye grains, dried and cracked, steeped in pure and hot water and transformed into sweet, sticky wort. Again, there is the blending of smooth sweetness with the sharp notes of hops, the bitterness that pulls the back of the tongue, mellowed and with the dividing lines between flavors blended and released as the frothing bubbles that the yeast puts off almost carelessly. Too much water, and the distinction of flavors is lost; add too many ingredients, however, and the simple, smooth blend is lost in a muddle of competing spices and herbs. Good beer is confident in its simplicity, offering up uncomplicated sensations with unabashed self-assurance and complete confidence in its ability to please. 

Thor considers his beer.

Thor is out of his element. Midgardians are delicate and completely ignorant of that fact: they consume too much, consider too little and too late, throw themselves too hard into their pursuits of what they think of as happiness. A case in point is the newest feud between Lady Darcy and The Archer Barton: some small matter or other, festering and swelling and eventually bubbling up into an unsightly, unavoidable abscess that no one wanted to be seen looking at but no one could look away from. Darcy launches herself from her seat, drink empty, with a handful of bills for the music-machine. Over the rim of his tankard Thor watches as Stark makes his way over to her, apparently intent upon hijacking her choices of music or at least getting a few of his own favorite pieces played. They argue ostentatiously, expressively. 

The Archer glowers at them over his tumbler. 

Natasha considers her mojito.

Alcohol long ago stopped having the intended effect upon her, but she can still enjoy the taste of her cocktails, and she is definitely enjoying the taste of this one: the rum isn't top-shelf, but the bartender muddled the sugar and mint just right and the harshness of the cheap ingredient is blunted more than a little. Tony, on the other hand, is still prey to the effects of the demon drink, and demonstrably so: he and Darcy have progressed from bickering over music choices to poking, elbowing, and playing girly-slap-fight in front of the jukebox. They are not the only patrons at the bar, and Tony never has been, nor ever will be, any kind of anonymous. (Natasha would love to know how he made it around Tennessee without detection for two whole weeks, but Mr Stark is playing that one close to the chest). A local hotshot who is about to try to bluster them away from the jukebox is suddenly starstruck at the sight of Tony, just as Tony is suddenly face-struck by Darcy. They both make the "oooooooh shiiiiiit" face at each other, and it might be enough for them to burst out laughing at the accidental injury. The hotshot, however, is drunk, and has friends with him.

Barton is out of his seat about a second too late to stop the other drunk from shoving Darcy and to prevent Darcy from spitting in the guy's face. He is not too late to join the fray that erupts. 

Thor considers his beer. 

There is merit in drunkenness: the purgative effect of losing oneself in the swirling uncontrol of alcohol relieves a drinker of the weight of sadness, fear, and nervousness; the resultant deep sleep can restore reason and clarity of thought. Drink can allow a person to lose themselves completely in celebration or mourning, relieving the human soul of the constraints that keep it from experiencing and feeling as deeply as it is capable. Drink can bolster the courage and blur the sharp relief of risk and judgement.

Not all effects of drunkenness are so noble.

A bottle explodes on the forehead of the star-struck drunk who shoved Darcy, thrown from a safe place behind the bar where Barton has set up a safe firing position. Darcy, unable to make it to safety, is nevertheless holding her own, stomping on insteps and kicking shins while dragging her fingernails down necks and across scalps. Thor and Natasha both spare a moment to admire the biting, head-butting dervish she has become before looking around for Tony. Stark is, for once, keeping a low profile, creeping around the edges of the fight, hooking his heel around the occasional unsuspecting knee when he thinks Darcy needs the advantage, but apparently trying to make his way back to their booth. He is not having a lot of luck but is not, apparently, disheartened by this fact. Eventually he makes it, and receives a nod of recognition from both Thor and Natasha, due in no small part to the fact that he's managed to procure three more drinks for himself without having to order them at the bar on his way over. 

An errant lime (Barton has apparently run out of shatterable missiles for the moment) squelches into Darcy's head at high speed and she turns to glare at the bar with a yell. Natasha's eyebrows jerk upwards as Darcy seizes a fallen bar stool and hurls it in Clint's general direction--she has none of his accuracy, but he cannot possibly match her for fiery rage.

A shredded mint leaf has worked its way into her straw and sucking it into her mouth is an unpleasant sensation. Natasha is going to need another drink soon, but as Clint has occupied the bar as his defense point, she doesn't think she'll be getting it before the rest of the muddled mint breaks down into bits and pieces and ruins the otherwise-pleasant cocktail. She's pretty sure the bartender has retreated to a safer corner, like the rest of the patrons: unwilling to get involved (as Darcy storms the bar, armed with a pool cue, Barton surges out from behind the rail and tackles her around the waist) but unable to look away.

"Should we--?" Thor gestures with his stein as Darcy lands a surprise right cross to Barton's chin. Natasha knows how hard Barton's head is, though, and that his dazed expression is more due to the fact that Darcy actually scored a hit. She shakes her head and casually appropriates one of Tony's drinks: an amaretto stone-sour, not at all unpleasant but a bit heavy after her steady stream of mojitos. Tony does not notice: he is up from his seat, and Thor hears him ask another patron if he'd care to lay odds on the winner. The other man chooses to put his money on Darcy. Thor doesn't hear how much the wager is. 

By the time the police arrive, Darcy and and Barton are clinging to each other, punchy and drunk and laughing at everything, from Tony buying the bar a round on his impromptu winnings to Thor patiently and methodically righting tables, chairs, and stools that have been knocked ahoo. Natasha manages to delegate the task of sweeping up the broken glass to several other people, who get the floor halfway clear before deciding to put their foreheads on the broom handles and spin themselves around them. Everyone is laughing; the mood is cathartic and hysterical and the perfect cover for the Avengers to make their escape. Tony slides the bartender a handful of bills as they stumble out the back exit.

"I'm still thirsty!" Darcy announces, unmindful of the swelling on her cheekbone or her bruised knuckles. "Stark! Where are we going next?"

Thor is doubting the wisdom of continuing their evening out, but Stark grins broadly, pointing at the flashing marquee and neon window-decorations of a conveniently-placed themed bar across the street.

"Friends," he proclaims in a grand voice, "consider...the martini."


End file.
